PS King

George and the Winged Woman

What’s to be done? It’s all gas fumes and highway. George Sudsby looked at the tip of his pinky finger as he drove. It was melting, leaking a purple liquid down what remained of his finger. This was not a good sign. His father and grandfather had both melted away like this, disintegrated into a puddle of purple liquid. Now George was dissolving, and he was only thirty-three years old. His father was in his fifties when this happened to him. So was his grandfather. But you never knew about these things.

He thought he had time. He was in love. Didn’t that count for anything? When he died, a little bit of passion would be gone from the world, too. He had Celeste, a winged woman. She wasn’t always there, disappearing and living her mysterious other lives for weeks, even a month at a time. She didn’t belong to him. She didn’t belong to anyone. But she always came back to him, and George always welcomed her. 

There was no physical pain, so that was something at least. 

The thick purple liquid foamed as it ran down his pinky finger. George gave the car as much gas as it could take. Maybe he could outrun his own destruction. 

Ring ‘em up. Ring ‘em all up. The woman whose groceries he was scanning smiled and said, “I have a coupon for that.” A coupon? Of course she had a coupon. George’s pinky finger had fully dissolved down to the knuckle. He had a bandage over it, but how long could the illusion hold? It didn’t hurt, and George wondered if the process would be completely without pain. He recalled that his father seemed to take it all in stride. He even made jokes about the situation.

The woman whose groceries he was ringing up smiled at him and said, “I have a coupon for that.” A coupon? Of course she had a coupon. George wanted to jump up on the conveyor belt, kick off all the groceries, tear his Walbeens shirt off and say, “Your coupons are only good in Hell!” Instead, he only nodded, and looked at his missing finger. He hoped he didn’t dissolve too much at work. He didn’t want to have to bother with cleaning up his own spill. And he knew they wouldn’t let him go home. Not as long as he could still ring up groceries. And he would have to lose both arms and at least one leg for that to happen. 

He wondered if he was in the winged woman’s thoughts at all. 

The whiskey in the soda can underneath the register felt so good every time he took a nice swig. Fuck it, and so what if he was caught? He would be dead soon, anyway. That had to count for something. 

Fully drunk when he stumbled and bumbled off work that night, swaying from one side to another, George found himself in the alley by his apartment building. His right hand had only started melting a little, so it was possible to hold his dick steady as he took a long and satisfying piss. What a fucking relief it was. Could he have made it to his apartment? Possibly, but he mostly just wanted to feel like he was pissing on the planet itself. The guts of it.

A voice from behind: “Spare a coin or two?”

George shook and replaced. He turned around and standing pretty close to his face was a very disheveled man. His eyes were yellow and his pupils were vertical slits, like a cat. George dug through his pockets and came up with a couple of coins. He put them in the man’s hand.

“Say,” the man said, “do you know the winged woman?”

A sudden surge of jealousy. But, no, she would never associate with a man like that. And yet…

“What do you know about her?” George said, a little more aggressively than he’d intended. 

“I sometimes see her at that window.” He pointed at a tenth story window in a building across the street. His building. Relief. It was George’s own apartment. 

“I know her,” George said.

“Quite a spectacle,” the man said. 

In his apartment, George turned on the lights and sat on the recliner. He turned on the TV. The rebels had taken over Tulip Zone. It bordered Tranquility Zone II, which was where George lived. He wondered if they’d make their way over and try to liberate his zone. The rebels were militantly pro labor union, and George figured that might make things easier for him at Walbeens. 

If he made it that long. There was purple all over his pants. The rest of his right hand was melting away, and rapidly. Okay, not much time now. At least it didn’t hurt. But George was still terrified. What would death be like? Would it just be a turning off and then nothingness? Or was there something beyond?

The hand was gone now, melted away. 

A gentle tap at his window. It was Lucy, the winged woman. She hovered, smiling at him. He waved her in with his good hand. She opened the window and flew in. 

“I’m not doing so good,” George said. 

She let her wings rest on her back and walked over to him. She stood in front of him and started to cry.

“How long?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” George said. “But it doesn’t hurt. It should hurt, right?”

“I’m glad it doesn’t hurt,” she said. 

Now both hands had melted to the wrists. 

“I don’t think I have long now,” George said. “I’m scared. I’m really scared. I don’t know what’s next.”

She squatted down and ran her finger over his forehead. “Peace is next,” she said. 

“It was always hard sharing you with other people,” George said. “With the world. I was always happy for your success, but jealous.”

“What can I do for you?” she said.

“One more flight. Please.”

She stood up and scooped him up into her arms. She cradled him like a baby as both of his arms started to melt away. It was happening fast now. 

Out the window and into the air. He couldn’t really see anything because there was purple in his eyes. Everything was melting now. 

The last thing he heard was the winged woman’s piercing wail, the saddest cry of mourning that he’d ever heard. My god, he was going to miss her.